


A Single Petal from a Petunia, Amaryllis, and Carnation

by orphan_account



Series: CoD:MW Hanahaki AU [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: (but only major ones), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF!Ghost, BAMF!Roach, BAMF!Soap, Battle, Character Study, Color and Type of Flower Petal's matter, Creative License, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flowers R Fucking Cool, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mission Fic, Multi, Occasional Contemplations of Self Worth, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Price Does Not Approve (TM), Romanticism, TF'sDad!Soap, TF'sMom!Roach, TF'sNotSoHeartlessProtector!Ghost, Time Skips, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, all members of the TF 141 will make an appearance, it will be updated, on Ghost's part, on Roach's part, on Soap's Part, therefore there will be, this is a war fic, updates vary as college has started, warnings will be listed at the start of each chapter, was used for Roach's background, whether or not the chapter is beta read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-08-13 15:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20176741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: People flock to the glory and power of war. War's a seducer and inevitability, a necessary action to save those that need saving. Amidst a planet struggling to stay above the surface of war, three men must lay down their lives to see that its people do not drown. Captain John “Soap” MacTavish, Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley, and Sergeant Gary “Roach” Sanderson are tasked with Operation Kingfish. With Captain John Price leading the operation, they are unknowingly sent head first into a new era of war, an understanding of what they want out of their lives, and a desperation to keep each other safe. The blooms of petals in their lungs may see them drowning before they can save the people of the world they were sworn to protect.Simon, John, and Gary will not let human civilization ruin itself even if it falls to its knees.





	1. The Petunia Petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Inspired by the Quotes:
> 
> “A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in--what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars.”- Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
> 
> and 
> 
> "When unrequited love is the most expensive thing on the menu, sometimes you settle for the daily special."-Miranda Kenneally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my awesome beta-readers songforhema and talison16 on tumblr! Thank-you for all your help and time put into this!
> 
> Chapter Information:  
Follows: Ghost  
Warnings: none  
Words: ~3085

The colorful petals rest sweetly in the bowl of the sink. The sink itself is nothing noteworthy. It's off-white, almost a yellow with rusty brown water stains from years of use, and made of a hard plastic that tries to portray itself as fancy marble. There is a liquid container on the wall. It's left a filmy residue the color of washed off dirt and blood from hands that had better things to do than wait for the soap to fall. There is no backsplash to stop water from warping the wall around the sink. There is the barest hint of black mold growing under a fresh coat of cheap, clumpy, poorly applied white paint. A mirror is perched over the sink bearing witness to the scandal every mirror around the world probably experienced. It has a character, too. It's cracked on one side; probably from anger or fear or simply from old age. The lights that shine over the scene give the reflection in the mirror and the mirror itself a horrid, washed-out coating from too bright bulbs that buzz in the quietness of the bathroom. Insects are flying around the bulbs, giving off soft pings as they tried to flirt with something they didn't understand. Insects who had stubbornly held onto their crush of the harsh light lay curled in on themselves on the countertop as husks.

Despite the worn-out and discouraging surroundings, the petal's range of color differed from cheerful red, bright blue, and even a canary yellow. The most noteworthy color happened to be black that day. Last week, when they had decided to let themselves known yet again, their color had been a deep blue that rivaled the depths of the ocean. Even with these different colors and almost weekly updates, the flower responsible was singular. Each petal- whether wilted, bruised or perfectly normal- fell from the same species of flower: the versatile and complex Petunia.

There is a whole medical website dedicated to flowers and their meanings. The site is translated directly to the nearest region's language so that everyone can access the knowledge and hopefully use it to fully understand why the flowers appear. Understanding why it appears is supposed to help in finding who the flower grew for. It is checked nearly down to the millisecond by people all over the world looking for every flower known to mankind and their meanings.

The Petunia flower has three meanings depending on color: your presence soothes me, anger, and resentment. These are the simplest meanings, though they can be the most complex in some cases. There are other meanings with nearly a color wheel of choices for this one flower. The Petunia is gifted from one person to another when an argument is wrought or assurance is let known. If the Petunia appears inside the lungs, then they will continue to grow based on the emotions between one person and another. The emotions bare birth to the color of the petals.

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley stared at the petals. Only the barest of information had been researched about his growth; why learn something when it was pointless to do so? He counted the petals, noted their color offhandedly, and the state of which they appeared in. There were almost ten full blooms of the tiny, weak petals; a few looked to be halves or quarters. There are black- the most prominent-, blue, yellow, and red- the most inconspicuous. The blues and yellows are wilted and turning brown from old age. The reds are dark, bruised from abuse. The blacks are fresh and soft looking.

A gloved hand reached into the sink and plucked the petals out of their cell one by one until every last spec of their presence was erased. The brittle, damp blues and yellows broke under a tight fist that harshly tossed them into the toilet. Hard, flat eyes rimmed in red veins from the effort of coughing up the petals saluted the swirling march of petals down the drain.

The black skull-printed balaclava came back over the mouth that has betrayed its owner yet again. Until the day the growth vanished, the balaclava will forever be a layer of skin over his head. A modified M1 in the corner was collected, the sink and floor checked for stray petals again, and the dark figure stalked out of the bathroom to rejoin its team on the training field.

Another week, another scene. It was routine. Simon won't allow it to be anything more than that. Sheer spitefulness and determination make the petals' growth slow and sluggish. The one responsible for the growth in his left lung will never know about it if Simon has his way.

The growth isn't spreading. He has it under control with a pill the doctors of the nearby village- almost 50 miles away from base- prescribed for the lung eating disease Simon calls a "Bloody Bitch." Its real name is Hanahaki Disease. X-rays of his lungs are taken every three months by the same doctor to be safe. And every three months, relief and a touch of resentment sprout a mixture of black and blue petals all over the doctor's shiny leather shoes. The growth never grows, never expands, and will never get further than weekly visits to the nearest isolated room to expel the foul-tasting petals. A pat on the back and two hundred dollars for the x-ray and visit- plus almost double the bill in bribe money to keep the growth between himself and the doctor- are the only interactions Simon allows after coughing his lungs out in front of someone else.

Simon lines himself up at the front of his team that shifts and welcomes him back as if their second in command hadn't just fled the training bunker. Captain John MavTavish, fondly called Soap by Captain Price, for which Simon has no idea why, comes over from behind the observation panels. His captain eyes him up and down, nods as he sees something Simon doesn't see and hands him a clipboard.

"We've a new member. Commander Shepherd wants to replace our numbers after last mission as soon as possible," John informs him with acceptance coloring his voice.

The death of three of their men's last mission almost turned into a fatal blow until John had gotten the rest of them out of there. Simon is ashamed to say he had been the one to get them into trouble, but he owes up to it with straight shoulders and the knowledge that the same mistake won't happen again. The first rule of the 141: risk, learn and adapt.

Those same flat eyes that had brushed petals off checked the file clamped on the clipboard. General information on the first page displayed a name and codename, a portrait of a young man, and a slew of recommendations from people Simon didn't bother to read. He skipped over nationality, addresses, next of kin, numbers, sexuality, and went straight down to three black lines labeled as Specializations.

Simon nodded in approval. "Hacking- a technology geek. Everything else we have. Still, this can be a good replacement for Hack." Simon handed the clipboard down to the next in line- Chemo. The lads gathered around the file with equal measures of low grumbles of doubt and approbation.

"Aye," John agreed with him, "that's what I was hopin' for."

"When does he arrive?"

"Sometime tomorrow. I'm goin' to make em run the Speed Bump after the House. Whatddya think?

Simon spared the gathered circle off to their side a considerate look. The mumbles where more positive than negative at this point. Some were still annoyed Hack was being replaced, but that will fall away with time and battle experience. Everyone in their line of work will pass too young and the more they see the team suffer a loss of life- and probably mission, too- the more they will harden their hearts. An attachment was dangerous in this line of work, after all. Simon knew that lesson all too well.

Risk, learn, adapt. Never tell. Never show. Never let your guard down.

Simon rolled his shoulders at the barest hint of pressure on his left side; the petals were growing again. Time to distance himself. "He'll wind up last on the House. A minute at least. As for the Speed Bump, it depends on how well he can take a hit and keep getting back up."

John chuckled and shook his head in amusement, "Kid is goin' tah get a rude awakenin'. He went from private to sergeant in three months. He has three missions that went bad, missions that we would call suicidal and we take the lowest of the low, in the span of four more months. Each mission: a success."

Simon hummed, "Guess that's why he's got so many captains on his list?"

"Aye, that's why. Each of those missions he was the last one out and the only one to make it in his platoon."

Simon tilted his head in his approval. It's deadly to go at something alone. And the man finished the mission? The remembrance of the man's codename made him snort, "Roach- that explains that. I was wondering why a bloody bug."

"Gary 'Roach' Sanderson. Not the best man we will have, but he reminds me of myself when I was young and following my Captain's shirttails: raw, skilled, and loyal to a fault. He'll be good for our men."

At the insulation of 'our,' the petals pressed insistently on his chest. Simon hooked his thumbs on support straps on his chest and tilted himself to the left. Out of sight, his left hand palpated in firm small movements to press the growth down. The flesh under his hand ached from old and new bruising from the pressure that was needed to dominate the petals. With the new growth flattened, the chest eased and lungs fully allowed him to breathe what was considered normal for him these days. Simon covered his actions by grunting, "Yeah. They need someone to relate to. But first things first, Captain."

John gestured with one hand to explain.

"He's got to pass the Speed Bump and I won't go easy on the little bug," Simon smiled crookedly. The normal act on others would be considered nice or happy. On Simon, he made it into a bone-chilling dread and wariness. A gaze that would freeze the most stubborn man to the spot. It wasn't the hidden face that would make them freeze- it was the eyes. The eyes of something that knew it was the top predator.

John rose an eyebrow, smirk full force. "Oh aye, I know yah won't, Ghost. That's why you're gettin' a handicap. One hand only. Normal rules, still, but yah never cared about that, huh?" He held up a hand and waved fingers in a jaunty motion.

Ghost couldn't stop the short burst of laughter. "Ha! You call that a handicap? Captain, I'm insulted."

John chuckled again and waved him to the observation room with the premise of going over today's training results. Simon followed after his captain with a light heart and amusement making him walk with just a little bounce in his step. The petals tried to rise again, but they didn't stand a chance against the recent flattening.

The faint hum of the team that lingered behind them had dulled to a single voice that reached the captain and lieutenant.

"Ghost just laughed. Ghost just fuckin' laughed. This kid is soooo fuckin' screwed."

The swell of voices after that was now rowdy and louder than normal. Bets flew from person to person and Simon couldn't stop the smug grin at the knowledge that nearly all of the men were betting in his favor. It pays- literally- to be the one everyone looked up to in fear and awe.

* * *

Simon watched the kid struggle from on top of a three-story scaffold that overlooked the two-story preparation course dubbed the House. Gary was fast and quick thinking, and the way the kid listened to commands would have brought a tear to John's eyes if the man had been here. Simon can tell that Gary will be worth training to fine-tune the little mistakes he sees from his perch.

This was the fourth run. Simon had won his bet with John; the kid took a minute and ten seconds to run the course the first time. Now, though, as the kid ran past the line and whipped a head up to him expectantly, the time on the stopwatch was nearly perfect for new blood. It was better than their two slowest men, that was for sure. Diver and Toad are going to bitch about it then run the course until they beat the time. That's fine with Simon. Their men need the exercise anyway.

Simon leaned against the railing, calling down to the kid who was bouncing on the balls of his feet, "30.5 seconds, Roach. You're getting better."

Gary saluted him and shouted, "Thank you, sir!" The man looked ready to combust with excitement. Simon felt exhausted just looking at that endless energy.

Simon snorted, "Don't let it go to your head. Now go get a canteen, change your clothes with that pair on the weapon's rack, and meet me outside."

Simon slid down the ladder and ambled outside. The sun was bright today so he put his glasses on and leaned on the side of the hanger to wait for Gary. After the kid showed up, Simon led him to the captain's office in the main building. The closer they got to the office the more Simon tasted the aroma of the petals. The colors each have a slightly different taste. Next week when he coughs up the petals again, he is sure at least a handful will be yellow. Simon pushed the petals down as they walked with a few firm hand pumps on his chest.

They gathered the captain who announced over the intercom that a Speed Bump was going to start in ten minutes. Simon, Gary, and John left the office and headed with the flow of troops to the gym. Most of the troops moved out of the way of their group. The ones in the 141 crowded around them and spoke with Gary or John. Everyone was excited to see the new blood get his ass handed to him. No one spoke of who the kid was going to fight, which was perfect, even when Gary asked repeatedly.

Simon left the throng of people at the entrance of the gym to go change into basketball shorts and a wife-beater tank. The balaclava was switched for a thinner version of it so that he wouldn't sweat too much and his boxing gloves were checked over with a critical eye. He smirked, tossed the right one back into his locker, and headed out just as John started rallying the troops.

"Are yah ready, yah damn animals?!" John yelled out at the mass of troops. A deafening roar blocked out any sound for a good few seconds. Like a writhing ocean during an incoming storm, the troops jostled, shouted, and created chaos for the captain. Just as sudden as they had riled, the room quickly went silent as John rose a hand. "I'm gettin' a new little pest. His name's Roach. You'll treat him proper, like a dainty little lady, and show him how we do it, boys. Yah got that?"

"Yes, Captain!" The troops answered him. Then, they shouted, "Roach! Roach! Roach!"

Simon stood in the crowd and observed the scene with detachment, analyzing the playing field, the tango, and the environment. As always, there is no cover to duck behind in the ring but what he will be able to make with his body. The difference is in the items and physical nature of the ring itself. The ring is warped on the left side. Best to use it to his advantage as soon as possible before the kid figures it out. There is a towel, a water bottle, and spare gloves near his side of the ring. He memorized their location to use the items if he should need to.

Gary is showing that endless energy again, jumping from foot to foot and stretching out his arms. Simon has just watched the kid for an hour. He knows the other man's specs: shorter limbs than himself, slimmer and leaner muscles than himself, shorter than himself. Final report: Simon has him beat in every physical attribute. The only thing the kid has going for him is that he is fast, and Simon doesn't know how he fights. Whatever training the kid had, Simon knows he won't fight dirty and that's where Simon will strike.

Rule 2: Use every advantage to take out the target. No matter what.

"Okay, okay, okay, animals!" John shouts to quiet the room. John then looks right at Simon and smiles a toothy grin. "Ghost! Get yer ass down here!"

The room explodes in applauds and shouts, some whistles and catcalls. Simon waves with one gloved hand as he pushed through the people and climbed through the cords held open for him. Assurance clouds his head as he watched the color leave Gary's tan face.

Gary turned to John and stammered, "Gh-ghost? That's the lieutenant? Why didn't you say anything?!"

John laughs, "You would've run by now, kid! Had to get yah here some way."

Then a difference in the last guy who tried the Speed Bump manifested itself between Simon and his target. Gary frowned at him, eyes stormy and shoulders stiff. Simon rolls his shoulders, calculating the change in his opponent. There was determination there. Good. Simon nods in approval towards Gary. That eased the kid into a more relaxed posture. Still, the fire in Gary was roaring and Simon liked to see that in a teammate. It meant they were strong and sure of themselves. It meant they would give it they're all. Simon finally had a real fight on his hands.

"No, Captain. I wouldn't have. I will take this Speed Bump and then I'll get that patch," Gary proclaimed.

Simon threw back his head and laughed, hands at his waist, "You can try, kid! Let's see what your shits made of!"

They met in the middle to the roar of the troops and the rhythmic beat of nearly hundreds of feet stomping their chant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to every reader who has given my work a glance. I look forward to any responses you may have or questions. Please feel free to kudos, comment, and message me whenever you like. I enjoy talking about anything and everything. Can reach me here or on my Tumblr under the name 3sleepycats.
> 
> -with love to all and good wishes,  
DN


	2. The Amaryllis Petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by the quote:
> 
> "Romanticism is precisely situated neither in choice of subject, nor exact truth, but in the way of feeling."- Charles Baudelaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my awesome beta-readers songforhema and talison16 on tumblr! You can find them there if you want to talk with them. They are great people :) Y'all have caught a lot of my grammar errors and I am eternally grateful for that.
> 
> My beta readers and I have decided to do one chapter a week! I hope this sticks to a set scheduled. If it doesn't, I'll let you guys know. If the chapter isn't beta read, it will still get posted.
> 
> Chapter Information  
Follows: Soap  
Warnings: see chapter end notes  
Word Count: ~3631  


John leaned against one corner of the ring to keep an eye out for Ghost's usual antics and another eye on the new kid. Roach wasn't doing great. His nose was busted, a red mark on the shoulder looked bad enough that the medics will slap some painkiller cream after this, and a slim chest heaved from exertion as it dodged and attacked a target that was never close enough. Ghost, on the other hand, was standing bent and ready with one hand held out in front of him and whole body turned sideways to minimize the hit chance. The other hand was held behind him. At least the handicap was being honored.

Ghost was a goddamn animal at fighting. John loved watching the man move as if all the motions were natural. But that's Ghost for you. The man was Death in a mortal body. No action was wasted, no move was rushed, no breath was missed. Ghost weaved under or blocked each gloved fist with the same expression he drank fucking coffee every morning: stony eyed and relaxed. John watched the tapestry Ghost weaved. He saw the way the man moved and reacted, the glances thrown seemingly at the crowd, the way he slid across the ring instead of stumbling down the bad end of it that was off centered.

John fought a rush of pride at seeing the whole picture before it could be completed.  


Instead of cheering and stomping like the other troops, John jumped down and jogged around the ring to the towel and water bottle. He snatched both and tossed them onto the floor so that they would be out of reach for Ghost. Just in time, too.

Ghost fainted back in a crouch and the hand held behind him blindly reached back for the water bottle only to come up empty. John reached forward and shook the hand, unable to help himself. Ghost's head snapped back to him so fast John heard a crack. The icy eyes were wide and shaken, catching him in their cool depths.

John smirked his best shiteating grin, "How yah doin', numpty?"

The face behind the mask bared its teeth at him and the hand wrenched out of his grasp. John laughed as Roach finally got several hits on Ghost across the left side of his chest.

"Handicap, Ghost!" John shouted, smiling and loving the atmosphere of adrenaline and brute strength. Another Speed Bump may not be far off if this show keeps on any longer. John may just have to show the base who the captain of the 141 is. John cracked his knuckles in sympathy as Ghost struck three times in rapid succession. Roach stumbled back- but stayed standing.

The room was too loud to make out Ghost's shout back at him, but the tail end managed to make it through.  


"-Yah bastard!"

The voice was not as enraged as that face had shown him. If anything, it was amused and-  _ fond.  _ Ghost had sounded so damned fond.

John's smile waned just a little from the poisonous coating of the growth threatening the back of his throat.  _ Huh,  _ John thought,  _ must be that time of the week again.  _ He swallowed the acidic taste and surveyed the room in confusion.

Each week for the past two weeks, without fail, he ended up having to heave flower petals into a bucket or whatever has been closest for a good half hour. He had looked them up the first time it had happened. The growth he had was an Amaryllis flower. It was said to be poisonous for living animals to consume and the national site had recommended to tell the one who made the growth appear or to get it removed as soon as possible. Pills would work on the growth itself, but the poison would slowly sap at his health.

Removing the flower was not possible- well it was. It is an easy procedure with two outcomes that John will not chance. The first is that John would lose all emotions towards the person. The second, which only happened once every one million or so people, all emotions would be lost for the foreseeable future. He will not allow himself to run from this growth like a child. He has more balls than that, more pride in himself, more courage.

Only one fucking problem: John has no fucking idea who the growth spawned for.

Yeah, sure, he feels for a lot of his men and even the other task forces that live on base. That's it though. He feels too much for everyone. He treats everyone the same. He divides his time for everyone. He loves to speak and be included with  _ everyone.  _ So when he gets the sour taste of poison and sweet flowers, soft blue eyes that have seen war and know what it can do but still hold hope for humanity searched every face near him. Every man and woman, whatever their sexuality is, he considered them to be the cause of the growth. He hasn't found them yet and hopefully he will soon. There is no telling how long the poison will take to permanently cripple him in some way.

He would like to see if it- a relationship, a close friendship, or maybe something between the two- could go anywhere. The pass flower petals had shown he loved whoever the growth represented. Being a hopeless romantic, the thought of the flower reacting to the person loving him back brings warmth and a side of a bright future. They would have to hide their affair- if they ever got together- because of laws against relationships in the military. John is fine with that. It's expected to have a few flings while out on duty. Every man or woman needs their own release some way. He's looked the other way when he's caught some of his men in compromising situations. Most captains won't do that, but he likes to think he understands the men's reasonings. He gets the want and need to be close to someone, if only for a night.

The ringing of a bell brings John's eyes back to the ring. The faint smile is back to 100% at the sight of Roach laying on the ring floor and Ghost offering the other a hand up. John pulls himself into the ring to also offer his hand to Roach. The kid looks like shit warmed over.

Roach groaned and flicked his wrist harshly to get the gloves off, "Lieutenant, did I just pass out?"

"Yeah, kid," Ghost snorted, "you did. Come on. The men are waiting."

John and Ghost each grab an arm to hull the kid to his feet. They supported him with one arm each across the kid's shoulder and back. Roach sagged into their hold, shooting them each a grateful smile. John ignored the side that was hot and wet against him. Pride for the new kid standing up to the scariest man on the 141 over ruled every other nuance at that moment.  


John used his other hand to silence the crowd with a wave. In the following restrained quietness, he shouted, "Alright, men! Did ye hav-a good show!?"

The men answered in that too loud rancor they've been at for the whole Speed Bump. The room bounced the noise and doubled it, shaking the chest and ears. The noise was so damn loud John thought the shouting grew quiet as it reached a crescendo. At that point, Roach leaned one ear against his shoulder and shouted, "Holy shit, there are a ton of people here!"

John winked at the guy, not bothering to speak over the crowd. He waved a couple of times to get the rooms attention. "Well, then. Tah men speak for yah, Roach. Ya fought well, brave an' smart under the pressure. Welcome to tah Task Force!"

Ghost and John raised Roach's arms above his head. The room cheered and stomped, calling out, "Roach! Roach! Roach!"

John and Roach cheered their own little victory while Ghost watched the new kid with amusement and approval.

* * *

The hallway outside the captain of the Task Force 141 was quiet save for the quick parade of combat boots.  _ Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. _ They moved fast and with purpose. The captain's door of the 141 was opened with a fast-forwarded screech from rushing hands and closed silently behind the boots just as fast. The two locks were flicked rapidly- not that they could keep out angone that frequented the halls. Everyone was trained to deal with breaching. It was the thought that counted. A vague hope that someone will respect his privacy. Sliding to the rubbish bin, the boots lowered knees down to bring a now heaving mouth even with the rim.

John gripped the edge of the bin as the first spasm of pain raced through his right side. A groan managed to break past clenched teeth. Another ripple of pain as the growth expanded saw the room dimming at the edges. The only thing that existed was the bin and the next lungs full of air that loosened the petals.

The bin was a simple dented grey metal. Those types of bins found in every school room from primary schooling to academies. The floor was the same throughout the older parts of the compound: cold concrete. It sapped the heat from anything that came in contact with it. It was perfect for summer months and down right deadly during the winter months. Bright, buzzing lights used everywhere else on base helped to see just exactly what was being passed into the bin. The shadows they created left the mind to wonder, though it didn't hold any room for anything besides the petals. The day-to-day noise and smell of the office was minute compared to the wretching, heaving breaths and the sweet scent of the Amaryllis.

Ever so slowly, a chest heaved and a fall of petals would decorate the trash in the basket. Eyes shut as they watered from the strain. Hands turned white as they held their owner up and gave him the strength to keep heaving.

Yellow, blue, red, and orange all gathered to show John just what emotions he felt for the person who caused the growth. John ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth and spit out a single white petal amidst the colorful collection. He doesn't bother to count the petals. He had the first time, but the task didn't prove to be of any merit. The number of the petals only showed how strongly you felt for that emotion. He knows how strongly he feels. Also, the website told him that only the color and the way the petal came out really counted in the end.  _ How many  _ didn't help him find out who the owner of such a foul and beautiful plant was.

John inhaled to test the growth against his lungs and found it to be back to normal- for a growth infected lung. He is worried it might one day hinder his breathing at a critical time, but the thought of losing the growth through surgery if he told his Commanding Officer quickly managed to stomp that invasive doubt. John sat down fully and carried the basket into his lap.

He reached inside to touch the single white petal. It called to him like a beacon at night. Calloused fingers smoothed the long petal between them, turning it over to check the other side. It was soft, plush, and new. The fingers set the petal next to him on the floor. Hand reaching in again, he gathered the blue petals. All of these were damp unlike the white one and all of them were wilted somewhat. The soft feeling of them was not as smooth. He placed them next to the white petal. Fingers shaking now, he grabs the yellow petals that crinkle at the slightest touch. They are all folded onto themselves and are the oldest ones with a faded color, brittle to the touch, and only being held together from spit or whatever fluid clung to them. The yellow joined the conference call the others were holding on the floor. The last petals were the hardest to gather. They were broken into tiny pieces from old age. The orange petals took on a pale tint as he gathered their small pieces. They were old yet the damage was from something else entirely. They had been broken up coming out. John doesn't know why or how to make sure they don't do that again. He doesn't think there is a way. Just one more problem to deal with.

Orange petals now with the others, John pulls his phone from his front pocket and opens the  _ Flower Company _ app. The Amaryllis flower, dubbed My Flower on the app, pops up first. The origin and its general meaning are listed under a generic picture of the flower. The colors- all fucking 500+ of them- are on the next page that he clicks on. He reached into his back pocket and leaned to the side to pull out his journal as he scrolled through the colors. He briefly set his phone down to rifle through the pages of the journal. He gets around the midway point to the collection of information he has gathered on the growth.

There are three pages full of information already. Only worded information is kept for the front of the pages. On the back of each page are images he found online of the flower. They are sketched in his own art style of scratching overlays and harsh edgings, painted the color of the petals he has already thrown up the other two weeks with pens.  


The first page holds general information about growths. How they come about, what to expect, how to solve them, what to do if you can't. John knows every word there by heart, so its more or less useless for him now. Still, he keeps the page. He might one day need to review it.

The second is more important with a table dedicated for when he throws up. The columns are: color, state of decay, and date of removal. So far, there has been blue, red, yellow, pink, and orange. There are some duplicate colors but that is expected. The surrounding space is used for questions he has asked himself that he wanted to remember. He jots down the information for the colors of this last session and ignores the questions of the last session. He hasn't gotten the time to look them up or even think about the petal problem yet. His work has mostly held him close this past week.

The last page is fully dedicated to linking the color meaning and state of decay to instances they might be linked with. It has a web of writing, arrows, and several names he has considered are already crossed out on the back of this page. The list of names is long and had taken nearly thirty minutes to write out last week. It was worth it. He quickly writes what had triggered this last growth:

**Roach's Speed Bump was a success.**

Looking at the words, he can feel they are not quite correct. So, he adds to the entry.

**Large crowd, rowdy atmosphere, Ghost was his opponent. Antics were stopped on the basis of a handicap. Troops liked Roach. The kid fought well- bravely and with determination.**

John flipped the page and added Roach to the list on a whim. He knew it couldn't be the new guy, but he felt like adding the kid in anyway.  _ It wouldn't hurt anything like if I never crossed out a name just for hope it was one person or another, _ John reasoned with himself. Flipping back, he wrote:

**Why today? Colors are similar to last weeks but only one change. A single white petal. Reason?**

The phone is picked up and sat on the opposite side of the page. John scrolled through the colors again until he reached 'white'. Blue eyes narrowed at the meaning the app gave him. Confused yet determined to see this through, sure hands wrote after the last entry:

**Color meanings: purity, femininity, children, innocence, and mourning (for a loved one). Is the person female or is the color only one of the meanings listed? No, it is more complex. Children could mean subordinates thus the color is brought out- but why now? Probably from a mixture of meanings. Innocence could be linked to not knowing the person and mourning could be in the same situation. So, the white petal could be from today during the Speed Bump. ** **There were too many people for me to search with nearly all of them save a few other captains of different task forces and programs being ranked lower than me.**

John underlined this last sentence. The evidence is pointing towards this as being the reason the growth happened today. The other colors are going to be more difficult to reason out but he had to try for the sake of his peace of mind.

**Other colors from oldest to newest: yellow, orange, red, and blue. Yellow: general happiness with most probable cause being no missions for the past week. Successful training sets with the team could also have caused it. Orange: good health, which can also be linked to the reason behind the appearance of the yellow petals. Red: love…**

John flicked his phone's screen a few times until  _ Red  _ appeared. Rereading the meaning, the bitter taste of the Amaryllis grew stronger in the back of his throat. After heavily and repeatedly swallowing, softer than normal blue eyes turned back to the previous task.

**Red: love, passion, or beauty is still unknown. Each emotion is confusing by itself. If put together, the last week was filled with training exercises as stated before. ** **My love for the team, my passion for us to do right, and the beauty of our teamwork can be a possible outcome** **. This is too broad. So is the meaning behind the white petals. Should I mark everything out? Is this a mistake? The website states to not overthink it. The growth does not want to confuse you, only push you to act. Then why the fuck doesn't it tell me who it grows for? It should only grow for one person at a critical time when I feel something for that person.**

Growing frustrated, the journal is closed and the pen is stored in a pocket on the leather binding of the journal. The petals are gathered gently in one hand, the journal and phone in the other, and John stands with arms out to balance himself during the act. He kicked the bin noisily back to its original place next to a filing cabinet and went around his metal desk to place the handful of petals in an open box under his desk. No one was allowed back here besides COs and only Ghost randomly went to get files or check the base's computer systems for information. John trusted Ghost not to snoop and the COs never cared enough to run a random inventory check on him. The box is white, new, and doesn't look out of place sitting innocently beside the other white boxes that hold old and new mission reports or files for just about everything from teammates to food expenses.

John leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his face, sighing in exhaustion. Today had not been bad. He had woken early, exercised with Ghost and Chemo in the gym, ate three square meals (a feat he never really has the time for anymore), finished all his reports for the previous week, housed a Speed Bump, and managed to get five kegs of shitty beer for the team and other task forces as a way of celebrating the new kid. The team was happy, the base alive at the moment, and everything seemed to be going his way. Almost too good to be true, really.

Yet, here he sat. Alone, a box of petals, and a journal with his life between its pages. The overhead lighting buzzed, harsh white bulb shadowing John's eyes and dips in his face. He didn't want to give up. He won't.

The journal hit the desk with a soft  _ poof _ and it opened for calloused hands to flip its pages in a familiar cadence. Dulling blue eyes ran over each page until it came to the last one. The pen appeared in his hands. John mentally went through the names he hasn't seen in the past week. Only three stood out. He scratched them out, heart heavy for only one of the names:  **Price** . If it had been anyone on that list, John was sure it would have been his old Captain. He hasn't thought of Price in nearly a full week. But with the man now on a secret mission for the past few weeks, John knows he can not leave the name up there just for old times sake. The rules of the website said the person had to be there and he had to think of them.

Staring at the list doesn't lift his mood. He dug into one of the desk drawers and pulls out a flat, black case. It's opened to reveal an array of multicolored pens and tools used for shading, correcting, and planning artwork. John takes a moment to think of what he wants to draw. Then with determination grabs the HB pencil that is nestled in the case to start his next piece.

The victory cheer between Roach and himself and Ghost's smile slowly start form under the skill of deft hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: non-graphic vomiting (maybe? it happens but idk if its graphic. its not to me.)
> 
> Thanks to every reader who has given my work a glance. I look forward to any responses you may have or questions. Please feel free to kudos, comment, and message me whenever you like. I enjoy talking about anything and everything. Can reach me here or on my Tumblr under the name 3sleepycats.
> 
> -with love to all and good wishes,  
DN


	3. Moon Sees Earth. Earth Sees Sun. Sun Sees System.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by the quote:
> 
> "It was like when you make a move in chess and just as you take your finger off the piece, you see the mistake you've made, and there's this panic because you don't know yet the scale of disaster you've left yourself open to." -Kazuo Ishiguro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Beta read yet! Will update with fixed version when/if I get the chance. I tried to catch everything as well as I could. 
> 
> Chapter Information  
Follows: Roach  
Warnings: see end notes for warnings  
Word Count: ~4346
> 
> Author's Edits  
Aug. 31, 2019: Beta reader has went over it so the old version was replaced with the beta read version. Only grammar, sentence structure, and minor things were fixed. no plot was changed. I am looking into fixing the capitalization/lowercase of captain, lieutenant, and sergeant. There was some confusion on my part so Imma do my research and fix them on all the chapters so far. Thanks to my awesome beta-readers songforhema and talison16 on tumblr! Check them out if you want to! They are nice people.

Tanned hands, slender yet strong and sure from hours of training, ran along the innards of an outside system box. Wires were followed blindly by the fingers, almost a secondary action, with just as much focus put into it as where the molten brown eyes traced different sets of wires on the face of the box. The wires outside gave an indication of what the fingers needed to follow inside. The slender hand scraped against sharp metal as it squeezed past a tight spot but continued their trek for the outlet they needed to find. Gaining a hold at the base of the appropriate wire that connected to the outlet, the hands yanked the plugin free and the arm was extracted with a mess of wires and one joint connector that had several wires jerrigged to it, albeit with much difficulty.

Roach eyed the connections in concentration. He tossed it to the ground next to a bag of components as he stated, "Someone messed with it."

Chemo crouched and poked around the bundle of wires, asking, "Prank? Or maybe payback?"

Shrugging, Roach answered, "From the looks of it? Nah. Someone tried to fix the wiring but failed to use the correct metals for the voltage. The ends are fried- we need a stronger metal. Maybe just one up. Should do the trick."

"Whatcha need?" 

"Three red wires and a yellow one. Also that black tape in the side zipper," Roach informed as he dug in his back pocket for wire cutters.

The items were handed to Roach in a pile. He set about shearing the ends of each length of wire and tapping the wires together at three-inch intervals. The exposed ends were twisted together to form a single, tape-free point. He clipped the ends to even the metal out and didn't waste time in jamming his arm all the way back into the box with one end of the wiring in his hand. He followed the wires on the outside with his eyes and his hands again, making sure the unit he wanted to plug them into didn't cross or were somehow mixed up.

"How long it gonna take?"

"Just give me a min, Chemo, for fuck's-" Roach hissed as his hand was scraped again. He jammed the wires into the outlet without thinking too much of it and pulled his hand slowly out. The skin was scraped off the knuckles but it won't be a problem. He's had worse- will have worse, too. The welling blood was wiped off on worn jeans. Roach held out the hand. "Gimme the bug."

Chemo scratched his head as he rifled through the bag. "What's it look like?"

"Three inches, black screen, rectangle- yeah, that. Thanks." Roach took the bug and leaned against the side of the wall. He plugged the open ended wires that hung out of the box into the bug. Instantly, the bug came alive with news feeds on the Task Force 141's water heater systems and some other digital devices the power outlet was hooked up to. Each Task Force stationed here at the base had their own section for nearly everything from rec rooms to training facilities. This included showers and adjoining lockers.

Those slender fingers tapped rapidly against the screen for a few seconds, dismissing everything not related to the water heater. The box vibrated just enough to where Roach could feel it but no one could hear it. A sunny smile split the young man's face. "We got it. Let's put this shit back and get the hell out of here."

Chemo helped him screw in the panel after putting the bug into the box in its own nest of new wires. It would be easy to identify if anyone checked the box, but Roach had a feeling the team wouldn't question his choice to heat the water up. Winter was fast upon them and the heater's panel had been broken before he had even gotten there. It was against the rules to mess with the property- something about government buildings; Roach didn't bother to remember _ all _the rules- so it took him three weeks of freezing his ass off every afternoon to get the balls to do something about it. Hopefully, the captain and lieutenant didn't bitch too much.

Not that Roach thought they would. Both of them have complained within earshot of him about the heater fucking up. Roach is sure they would look the other way. Hopefully. Okay, they would- but would they? Doubt was brushed aside as Chemo took the lead on rounding the building and heading to the rec room. As was mostly typical of Monday afternoons, the captain and lieutenant were nowhere in sight, so Chemo was free to shout their victory to the team. They were cheered and drug into the center of a pool game and some card games off to one side. 

Roach didn't feel like playing either. The new habit everyone had was to pull him in without his say-so. Not minding the hands that grabbed his arms, he settled in one of the chairs with the rowdy team around him, watching everyone with a small smile and content with his afternoon.

The topic changes back and forth between meals the team wanted Roach to make to how expensive it is to keep funding Roach's cooking skills. Roach does the necessary laughs at the right times and hopes they don't find out he secretly relies on those cooking skills. The action of providing- of being wanted and praised for something he can do with his eyes closed- brought tentative pride he almost desperately reached for. Eventually, they let up and the banter moves away from him to one dead horse that has gotten old and used up in the short time Roach has been here.

The favorite topic- like it is every other day- soon becomes how much everyone hates the lieutenant. Roach stayed out of the conversation. The guys never noticed when he avoided the topic. They all assumed he either agreed or 'had yet to learn the lesson of not sticking around the ball-buster.' Roach went as far as to move to the couch to watch some shitty German soap opera one of the other guys liked. With just him and the other guy's eyes glued to the screen, he was free to frown his dislike of the conversation ten feet away.

The other men bitch and moan about Ghost behind the lieutenant's back. It's cowardly and disrespectful in his opinion. Roach doesn't understand their derision towards the man. The training is hard, yes, but that means Ghost wants everyone to have the greatest chance to live in the next mission. The lieutenant cares for the team. Even Roach can see _ that _pass the hard outer shell the man covers himself with and the way he holds everyone at arm's length.

Ghost is a hard leader to follow. Roach spends days and nights trying to catch up to the man. He's crawled through trenches that were filled with hog-stunk muddy water and filth while rats nibble at his exposed neck with more ease than being a student of lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley. Despite the harsh and sometimes bitter outcomes of training days, the special training Ghost gives him is working. He can feel it in the way he moves. His limbs are stronger, his aim steadier, his mind clearer when in a mock-firefight. An old childhood injury on his hip that locks up when he overworks himself is slowly able to take on the rigorous endurance runs Ghost throws him at every weekend.

The chance to test and prove himself in a real battle has not happened yet. The mock-firefights that may take a full day to set-up are more or less even in win/lose. For his teams, anyway. Other teams are sometimes not so lucky with more losses than wins.

Ghost is verbal about any mistakes the teams make. The balaclava is intimidating, and some days Roach can only look away when faced with the stern disapproval in the set of strong and wide shoulders or the narrowing of ice-cold blue eyes when he does something really stupid.

Like last Friday when he had placed himself between the 'bomb' and the 'hostage' when it blew up. It was a blank explosion and the only damage done was a ringing in his ears and a blow to his pride as a stormy lieutenant had chewed his ass out in front of the whole squad (sans captain; small miracles.) Roach learned that he could have tackled the hostage out the room instead of just running to block it. Well, like Ghost preached: rule one is to learn and adapt. A saying that was a mantra in his _ dreams _now. 

Roach thinks Ghost feels responsible for their lives and tries to make them the hardest motherfuckers on the playing field. Roach can _ feel _the way Ghost works so hard to do this. There is no other reason Ghost would push them so much. Or if there is, Roach doesn't know it.

Roach can read the other pretty well when it comes to the team. Outside of that? He has no idea how to speak or act with the lieutenant.

Rising in rank as fast as he did, Roach had to take a one month class online on his off times while deployed to learn what was expected of him. He learned to communicate exactly what he wanted with the team he would lead when his superiors wouldn't be able to and to read and have a good standing relationship with any other supervisors he may gain. One of the recommended actions the class taught him was to allow himself free time to get to know the team and his supervisors off field.

The 141 team was open minded and readily accepted him into their fold. They had liked that he had stood up to Ghost and helped them several times already with projects. He was looked upon for answers when a tight spot came up in training and they followed every order he gave them. Off field, it was the same except for everyone was equal. They bantered and joked; hit the gym in packs; went to the mess and showers together; and they even sat around in the rec room during leisure hours just spending their time playing cards, watching TV, or pranking each other. It was as healthy a team as Roach had read in the books the class made him read. 

Then, the captain started showing up five days after he had been initiated. It was strange at first but quickly became clear that MacTavish only wanted to spend time relaxing with friends. Roach fell into an easy liking of his captain that turned into hero worship after they traded stories one of those lazy, exhausted nights. MacTavish was strong, supportive, and easy to speak with. The man joked just as much as the team. He corrected others when they did something uncalled for yet it wasn't taken as a scolding. He did it in a way that suggested to the offender that they were simply exchanging words of advice. A quick humor, open and trusting smile, and the focused attention the captain gave not only to the one he spoke to but to the whole team around them drew Roach in.

He found himself standing closer, speaking more freely, forgetting about ranking, watching the other man closer than what could be considered appropriate. Chemo and Toad had poked fun at him for watching and listening to MacTavish speak with a group across the rec room. Roach had brushed them off by rolling his eyes, saying he was only interested in the story. Which he was because the captain could tell a story so well it felt like the rain was pelting you, the sting of water in the eyes were real, or the fear and adrenaline from being spotted by enemy snipers would rise up in the back of your throat like bile.

And through all those weeks of quickly falling into a fast friendship with MacTavish, Ghost lingered in the background like a wall decoration that was never glanced at anymore or offered itself to be known because it had been around for too long, seen too many people, heard too many praises or insults to consider even reaching out. Roach was growing tired of waiting for the lieutenant to come to him. It was his duty- his choice, purpose, and want- to reach out to everyone on the team. He may be the Sergeant, who is not that much above the other members of their team, but that doesn't change who he is as a person. The need to check in on, to make sure his people are doing okay, to reach out and offer himself in anyway he can to help others has always been in his blood.

As fucking silly- and frustrating to admit even to himself where he should be safe in his own mind- as it sounds, he _ dotes _ on others. Loathing the simple word doesn't help anything. It fits. It works to explain every action he makes regarding those around him. He liked to _ dote _on others.

And that _ doting _ had made him what he is today. It had brought him here, listening to the banter of a group of elite men who were as normal as every other person, doing something they enjoyed to save the world one fight at a time.

Roach watched a woman on screen turn to another woman. Distraught after finding out years after her late husband's death about something Roach had missed, the woman flung herself to the other woman and they sob together, holding each other tight and needing human contact after the ordeal. Roach watched the scene with a distant yet pondering detachment. Half-conceived thoughts wonder and mix. He lets the room fade and focused on the inside, on the TV, and the nagging little worms in his head that try to poison his thoughts. He's not strong enough to block them or ignore them at that moment.

The 141 men don't have people to hold here like the woman had on the TV. They have a team to complain about any grievances, but no one to hold to make the world seem okay for a few moments. He himself hasn't had that contact, platonically or romantically, in years. The last one to ever hug him had been his basic training buddy. Her name had been Sarah Wellbing. She had failed her training and had made the choice to go back home while he had passed. He remembers how tightly she had hugged him. How he had been sad to see her go but relieved one of his friends would be safe at the home front. How he had turned away before she ever even left his sight. He hadn't savoured that contact like he should have. He had forgotten about her after making it across the wide oceans into hostile desert territory.

Before her, it had been his adopted parents seeing him off into training. Before them? His blood sister. Before her? Well, he used to have two sisters. A mind trained to avoid the topic shifts almost urgently over the image of a gravestone. It shoves the previous thoughts of loneliness forward to compensate for the silence that swallowed his train of thought.

He hasn't had any other contact with other people and suddenly he _ aches. _A hollowness starts small and pulsing in his gut as he watched the women fade off into black and the commercials come on. All the pats on the back, shoulder checks, knees pressing together in the back of transport vehicles blur together in his mind. None of that could fix what every human needed. He thinks of Ghost, the isolation the man goes through daily-weekly-yearly, surly not? How long has he been alone? 

_ When was the last time someone hugged Simon Riley because the man had needed to be held to stop the world from being too much? Would I ever get the chance to do that again? Will I...just fade away? Will anyone really care once I bite the bullet? Will they think of me like they would of Ghost? _ That hollow feeling expanded, threatening to climb his throat and tighten the muscles into locking up. Fighting the sudden dark fog rolling throughout his person, Roach stood swiftly to escape the loud, insulting banter of the room. He needed fresh air. He needed to stop thinking about Ghost. He needed to get these thoughts out of his head. He needed the worming doubt to _ stop. _

Archer and Toad called out to him, but he was saved by Chemo. "Hey, ease up, mates. He gets first shower anyway. Let 'em have the whole thing to himself. He really saved our frozen asses on…"

Chemo's voice faded as Roach went outside the rec room to the expansive hallways that led on and on. He rounded corners blindly as arms and shoulders folded inward to stop scarred hands from shaking. Everything was numb from whatever this was that plagued his body and mind. Distantly and rationally, he understands that it is panic.

He just doesn't know _ why _it happens. It isn't the first time he's seen his hands shake uncontrollably. The last time had been years ago, though not as bad as this time.

Lungs heaved in broken-off inhales, each breath cutting the next one off, emitting a dreadful foreboding throughout the fog.

_ Can't-catch-any-air! What the- fuck- is wrong- with me?! Why- now? _

Roach's vision was tunneling. Everything become non-existent. Shaking legs moved on their own to follow a path only the back of the mind was aware of amidst the chaos instincts fought to control. A hard wall appeared in his path. Roach fumbled as his body bounced back from the unexpected impact. The unresponsive arms reacted by lashing out one at a time, legs planting roots strong enough a storm would be needed to knock them over, and mind blocking foggy eyes from seeing anything but an obstacle meant to do harm. An obstacle with the only purpose to erase him from existence.

One hand was grabbed at the first swinging wrist in a crushing hold, the other fist he threw was blocked as it went in to strike an opening on dark fatigues, and his knee surged up as a last resort to protect himself. The hand that blocked him deflected his knee with enough force it knocked him off balance. His free hand grasped at the shirt front of the wall of muscle and twisted to gain a hold.

A thought zipps like a stray bullet through the haze: _ I've no advantage here. I'm weaker. _

In the aftermath of the bullet, all sense of composure and self-preservation the mind tried to gather is shaken. Foggy eyes frantically tried to make out what was real and fake. Hands and arms gripped his shoulders and braced his neck. A mind consistently filled to the brim with tranquility during life-and-death moments now crumbles around itself in terror.

"-son. Breathe Sanderson-"

A ringing he hadn't noticed clouding his senses fades off at fluctuating intervals, allowing that rugged voice to break into his head and manhandle his thoughts into their proper places.

"In- breath in, now, Sanderson-"

Lungs expand to their fullest at the command and the air rushed out too fast as a spasm of fear tried to prevail. Choking almost won over what should have been a natural instinct to breath in. 

"-hold it in. Breath in again, hold it, that's good, hold it. Hold-"

Roach stuttered the air out as he was not able to hold it in any longer. He became aware of warmth before anything else. It engulfed him from his cheek to chest. A band of fire trailed from his side to between his shoulders, holding him firmly against the wall.

"Again. Breath in deeply. Hold it."

Roach followed the orders that vibrated against his chest and ear. His chest couldn't expand like it wanted to with the tight hold the band of heated iron had wrapped around him. Already his head was clearing of that lightheadedness. 

"And out."

Roach shivered from the damp wave of tobacco-scented breath. Muscles relaxed into the hold. The mind latched on to the only escape in sight. Slender hands showed their strength as they held fist fulls of black fabric. Tiny, pitiful noises begged the one helping him to stay.

"Easy, you're okay. You're safe. Breathe. In. _ Now. _ And Hold."

Roach obeyed.

"Out. Good. In..."

He followed the orders until the fog was gone and his mind was back in order, although it was too spent to come up with anything other than seeking that calming wall of warmth. Exhaling, he closed his eyes as the owner of the voice finally registers, "Ghost…"

The hand on his neck- thick, warm, and calloused- retreats from his pulse point to his shoulder. It's as grounding an act as the arm holding him fast to his lieutenant's chest.

Ghost sighs. It's almost a sound of relief. Roach isn't sure what it is. Feeling the other nod against the side of his head, Roach tilted his head back to see Ghost's face. His cheek is resting on a solid collar bone covered with a soft black fabric. The man is wearing a turtleneck with the balaclava resting on its throne. Ghost isn't looking at him, instead off down the hallway. Only the eyes and brows are visible. Ice-colored eyes that show more emotion than Roach has ever seen in them before. A brow that isn't furrowed or mocking but relaxed. The eyes he's never seen before flick down to his, holding his gaze. Worry, indignant, a soft vulnerability stared back at him. Ghost broke the spell by looking down the hall again.

Roach saw the eyes harden, the walls building, and his own body tensed as it realized the one it leaned against was tightening itself. Roach swallowed driely. He's used up the only hug he will probably get in the next few years on a fucking panic attack.

"Sanderson, are you good to stand on your own?"

Nodding made the tense arm robotically unlatch and move to pressed him firmly, yet still strangely supportive, away by the shoulders. Roach went with head hanging, too tired to be ashamed of what just happened and respectful of rank like it was expected of him. Ghost released him when he was at arm's length. Roach refused to look at the man. He didn't want to see the judging, critical eyes of someone he was starting to think of as a hero like he does MacTavish. He would rather just get scolded and leave or for Ghost to just drag him into the dirt swiftly and painlessly before their CO as unfit for duty. It was bound to happen. His failures and flaws were always following behind him.

_ How have I even made it this far? _

"Come on, ya? I was going to the captain with a report on today's progress. We can hit the gym after."

Roach slowly made himself look up. Ghost wasn't watching him. The eyes were trained fixedly on files held in the same hands that had grounded him to reality. In the next moment, Ghost turned away and started walking down the hallway. Roach listened to the man's boots echo in the quiet halls. He heard the distant sound of the rec room banter. Then, three running steps brought him to heel next to the lieutenant as the order fully registered.

No, not an order. An offer. 

_ For what? _Roach thought to himself. He watched the lieutenant review the file as they walked, turning over the offer as if that was the only thing that he should be thinking about; staunchly ignoring the panic attack he had and Ghost's involvement.

It clicked as they turned down the captain's office hallway and the walls changed from tentative building plans to permanent concrete foundations.

_ To be allowed inside. To get closer to Ghost. To understand not only Ghost or the lieutenant, but Simon Riley. _

Maybe it won't go anywhere. Maybe Roach won't ever understand or Ghost won't ever open up and laugh or joke or relax around him or the team. Maybe Ghost never wants that kind of life- to be surrounded by others who are willing to listen or help without thinking about it. Maybe Ghost likes the quiet life, watching from the outside, of training the men sent into battle and being proud of them when they are doing well.

But Roach knows one sure aspect about Ghost from just three weeks of being under his training: Ghost doesn't trust anyone besides the captain. The captain has a place in Ghost's life unlike everyone else. MacTavish is standing in for all of the team as the single barrier Ghost has for the world around him. If not to get Ghost to open up to the team, maybe Roach could just be another support beam like the captain for Ghost to lean on. Everyone needed someone to vent to or exist in the same space as another person. The captain may not be around forever. It's just one of a whole list of hazardous truths in their job; it's reality. Roach knows if that ever happens Ghost would need someone to help him survive, to not lose to grief or rage or hatred or whatever else would beat a man down to bone meal after losing the only person who ever got to know the real him.

That sounded pretty good to him: be a pillar. That sounded do able. Acceptable. Rational. A fair trade for the training and effort Ghost put into him so far and will probably continue to fuel. Roach vowed silently to never betray the trust Ghost was putting in him, even if the lieutenant didn't know the mountainous mission Roach had just assigned himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Panic Attacks, internalized self worth issues, author doesn't know anything about electrical issues
> 
> Thank-you for reading! I look forward to any responses you may have or questions. Please feel free to kudos, comment, and message me whenever you like. I enjoy talking about anything and everything. Can reach me here or on my Tumblr under the name 3sleepycats.
> 
> -with love to all and good wishes,  
DN


	4. When Uncertain Ask Why, When, and Where

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Inspired by the quotes:  
"Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers." -Voltaire
> 
> and 
> 
> "If you want to teach people a new way of thinking, don't bother trying to teach them. Instead, give them a tool, the use of which will lead to new ways of thinking." -Richard Buckminster Fuller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is not beta read. I will update it when it is and inform you if plot has changed. 
> 
> ALSO, be aware that I have given Soap an accent in this chapter. It is something I am trying out and if y'all like it or dislike it let me know. If no one says anything or if people like it, imma go back and give him the same accent in the other chapters. If its too much or poorly executed, let me know how I can fix it or if I should just go back to writing his normal dialogue like the other chapters before this one. Thanks for reading. <3 
> 
> Chapter Information  
Follows: Ghost  
Warnings: see end notes  
Words: ~7289

Simon was hyper aware of the body walking half a step behind to his right. He kept his eyes forward, chest locked down, keeping the emotions from leaking out as best he could. Allowing them to control him was dangerous. That opened up memories. Weaknesses. Relapse potential. He couldn't be what he had just been for Sanderson- or anyone else- ever again.

The closeness, the shaking, the labored breathing, the incomprehensible pathetic pleas- it all added up to expose his core to another that he never intended to do. A core that has been carefully controlled so the past never waltzed to the future unwelcomed. He had let the panic of another in when he had held onto Sanderson like that. That panic had danced over the graves of the dead and woke them. He feels them rising to a tune Sanderson sung, a tune of helplessness. Simon won't be sleeping tonight. Not with the dead and past keeping him up with their stomping steps breaking down the flooring he had placed over them.

Simon has already gone through what Sanderson is dealing with. Panic attacks, uncontrollable rage at the slightest inconvenience, self-doubt and self-sacrifice, the need to keep moving or else the memories would resurface, the irrational paranoia. All bottled up with carefully cultivated practice. Therapist after therapist visited in the hopes of understanding why and how his own mind clicked after what Roba had done to it. Those months learning to identify his own triggers were rough and nearly cost him his career in the military. He couldn't reverse what had been done. The many therapists made sure he understood that truth before he was allowed to work again. Instead of getting rid of them, he lived with them and learned to be the owner of his actions and thoughts instead of letting them lead him around on a leash. 

One of the side affects of Roba's torture was the compulsion to protect others from what had happened to him. Simon never looked into why he felt the need. It was just there. He accepted it even if it confused him. Maybe it was from seeing what someone could become under the hands of another. Maybe it was to save the families of the troops. Simon doesn't think about it often anymore. The route to see others protected in this way was simple: train the ones around him to the best of his abilities.

That only included the physical aspects not the mental ones. He understood physical actions and negative attention. Working with those two most of his life has made them easy to manipulate and understand. He didn't understand whatever emotions Sanderson had just beat into the ground. Panic attacks are irrational like that. They never male sense even after discussing it with a therapist. The best he could offer was a way to fight back against the crippling mind attacks. Training would hopefully help Sanderson, and himself, to get their demons under control again.

Knocking on the captain's door, he entered after an affirmative was called. Simon gave a firm command for Sanderson to stay outside. Simon watched Sanderson walk all the way to the corner and lean against the wall. Good. Sanderson won't overhear any classified information from that distance. That is if the kid stayed put. He closed the door behind him and stepped up to the captain's desk at attention.

John looked exhausted. The captain's eyelids were drooping and he sat with his elbows leaning into the metal desk. The thick shadow of a beard and rumpled clothes spoke of several days without rest or personal care. Simon hasn't seen him the last few days so it could be the same outfit. Files and reports littered the desk, but John's journal is laying open at the top. Only the black pen Simon always sees John carry with the journal is out today, dangling in John's broads hands as if forgotten for the time being.

"At rest. We're alone, mate. Don't make me keep repeatin' myself."

Simon blinked slowly to show he understood. His form only sagged slightly; Sanderson was still waiting outside no matter how far the kid goes. They weren't alone any more than they ever were with a base full of military personnel. The tobacco taste of the petunias leaked a foulness on his tongue. While he smoked on occasion when stressed, the taste was still awful. Simon cleared his throat and caught the tiny stray petal that had somehow made its way into the back of his mouth with his tongue.

The petal was pushed quickly under his tongue before he spoke: "You know me, eh? Always formal. Always on the job. Always will be, captain."

John tabbed the corner of the open page of his journal by, eyes far away. Simon could tell the other was thinking too much about either what he said or what was on the page. He tried to keep his nose out of John's private journal, but his eyes found the layout of what looked to be a base. With photographic memory, he won't forget the layout or the messy notes surrounding it. Enough concentration will bring the page up in his mind's eye. He wished he could forget it just to be able to say with a straight face that he honored his captain's privacy.

John sighed heavily, tossing the pen onto the desk, "Yeah. Sure, Simon. Feels like it e'ery fuckin' day we're in this blasted base."

Simon grimaced. The captain was in a mood. That meant one or two things. Deployment or disagreement- could be both. Simon tried his luck with asking, "When are we deployed?"

John gave him an irritated twist of the mouth but it melted away into tired amusement. "I can't hide shit from yah anymore."

"That is why you made me Lieutenant, MacTavish. That, and to box your ears on battle strats that would never work out."

That got the reaction Simon had wanted to see. John's head flew back and a long, genuine laugh lit up the sluggish office. Chest tightening on the left, Simon didn't regret making his captain's dark mood disappear. Today was a day of indulgence it seemed.

"One time, Simon, one time I botch a mission while gettin' gunned down on three sides and yah hold it over my head for _ years."  _ John laughs again and stands with the journal. Simon exchanged it with the file he needed to turn in when John offers it to him. He scanned the page and the one beside it that was full of more notes and questions.

His captain continues, "This is teh next mission: Operation Kingfish. Intel is heavy, reliable, and it's goin' to be an all or nothin'. Price is comin' in from the woodworks and changing to leader with us as primary infiltrators, the new kid at six, and some friends from out of base as look out. Getta good look. See if yah can't form a better plan than Price. He's good, but he's not all himself with this op. Somethin' isn't right- Commander Shepherd and Price are keepin' quiet about what the op is focused on. 'Kill teh target, don't worry,' Price says. Aye know we should just accept teh mission and not question it but…"

After three passes over the information just to be sure, he handed it back to its owner. "Affirmative, MacTavish, I'll look into it as soon as possible."

John's smile waned and turned sharper as if it was hard to maintain all of a sudden. "Shite. I did it again. Told myself I would stop gettin' yah to check my work at odd hours of the day. Yah already bloody train teh new recruits and teh team by yourself most days. S'rry, Simon. Never mind. We'll just speak 'bout it tahmorrow when we're actually on the clock. We have a week tah prepare the others. We 'ave time."

Simon hesitated to let the task go. John was still in his office at 2100 when the man is known to be in the rec room with the team. If this was important enough to make John worry and ask for a review, the mission they are going on is either dangerous, suicidal, or sketchy. He chose his words carefully to test the waters, "What's so bad about getting a head start?"

"Nothin' much mor- Simon, really? I know wat you're doin', yah numpty," John groused and folded his arms across his chest.

Trying to appear confused, Simon twisted his mouth into a frown of concentration. "Doing what, Sir?"

That earned him an unimpressed glare tinted in amusement. " _ Enough _ . I said tahmorrow, so tahmorrow we'll speak 'bout it. I know yah care about lil' ol me, but I have it handled."

An exhale tasting of fresh earth was muffled by the balaclava. Simon dropped the act.

_ Too close. Back up. _

He nodded firmly to show he understood his captain's choice. He didn't agree with it, but he will listen. He asked, "Tell me one thing?"

"One. Don't make it broad, either."

"Why is this operation calling Captain Price- the literal man who trained you and me to take over the team and hasn't been on a one-four-one team mission in a year, the one guy in the one-four-one who has been listed as  **Deployed** on a solo mission in that same timeframe- back to lead this mission? I would've thought you and whoever we are teaming up with would spear head the op."

Eyes asking that same question looked back at him as if he would have the answer. John ran a hand from the back of his neck up into his mohawk. The broad hand wiped the apprehension away from the captain's face, leaving behind that tiredness again. John offered the only thing he could: "I don't know, mate, but I'll find out. When I do, I'll let yah know."

Simon nodded and accepted that. "Alright. Tomorrow. What time should I report in?"

"After trainin'. 'round noon. We needa get teh men up to date, start teh plans, yah know teh drill." John shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal to be going on a mission after literal months of dead air.

A pause in the conversation brought a peace over them. Simon doesn't understand why John's presence does this to him, but he can't help the way the sharp edge of awareness of everything around him dulls as he stands alone with John. It's like shutting off a computer that's run too long or closing his eyes after reading a book for hours on end. Peace, quietness, equanimity all settling over him as a blanket that warms him and brings the growth's taste pressing high in his throat and heaviness in his lung.

John breathes easily before him while leaning a hip against the desk and eyes looking down at the files Simon had brought him. Such a contrast to Sanderson's gasps only a few minutes before and his own measured breaths through airways half plugged. Simon allows himself to drift off into mindlessness enjoying the time he had. While stolen and inappropriate with military rules and regulations, he can let himself go. Let the problems be nothing more than background noise. Let the dead go back to their graves. He eases into the near silence.

Around five minutes later, John hums, "Hmmm… See yah marked Driver a negative on runnin'. Good call. He knows tah bloody transport forwards and back, but his times are teh lowest outta teh group. He needs tah be able tah keep up if his prized toys stop on us."

"That was my ultimate goal."

"And Gary is doin' better than we e'er could've hoped for. He fixed tah comms problem we had last week, an' now I just read he improved the satellite imagin' program fer our predator drone connections today? Tah kid is talented. I'm going to ask him teh show me some tricks. It's a damn sight, watchin' how teh kid's mind works."

"Sanderson is talented, I will admit. It's impressive and I look forward to seeing how he works on the field. He's come far since he got here. There is…" Simon found his mouth clicking closed. He hadn't meant to bring up Sanderson's episode.

John frowns. The man knows something is being kept from him. "What?"

Simon shakes his head. "There was a slight problem, but I have resolved it already. A miscommunication during the hostage take over training exercise."

John snorted, "Las' week or somethin', yah? Tah numpty didn't really think that one through. Okay, Simon, I guess we're done for teh day. What're yer plans for tahnight? I saw Gary outside."

"The gym with Sanderson. He asked to show him some hand-to-hand pointers." The lie was easy to get out; the growth told him that it wasn't easy at all. Seeing John's eyes clear of that tiredness and wanting to stop any incorrect notions the man may be having about his plans, Simon asked, "Want to join? The kid could use with some of your straight lace fighting."

John quickly nods and grabs his keys from the desk. Simon turns to lead the way out but John grabbed his elbow and leaned in to quietly speak next to his ear. "I don't know what happened tah Roach or why you are hidin' it from me, but know I'm here tah help in any way I can. Remember that."

Simon nodded, neck stiff and jerky. "Understood."

John clapped his shoulder and pushed past him to open the door. The captain smiled up the hallway and called out to Sanderson with a friendly hello and wave. Simon hiked his tense muscles into gear and followed his captain, who locked the office door behind them.

* * *

"Strike," Simon commands. 

_ Smack.  _ A body falls. "Shit!"

John groans off to the side, "Come on, Roach, yah 'ave more grace than that."

The body stands and holds up its hands. "Again, Ghost."

"Then strike. I'm waiting on you."

Simon watched the way the other man's body moved to circle around his left side. It was fluid and swift, perfect as far as movement went for someone who trained for only three weeks under him. Some of the guys wouldn't be able to take Sanderson down now that he's got the skill. Just when Simon thought Sanderson was going to go in for an attack, the man froze and cocked his head to the side. Simon snapped a quick glance at John just to be sure the man wasn't interfering. Simon still hasn't forgiven the captain for taking the water bottle away from him. But the captain seemed intrigued more than shifty by Sanderson's change.

Sanderson started walking back the other way around at a half circle without defending or attacking positions up. Simon's smile was hidden from view. The kid had figured it out. Sanderson was watching him closely. The way the kid's mind worked was showcased on his face in twitches of the eyes and corners of the mouth. When Sanderson stopped, Simon read the kid's lips as he mumbled to himself.  _ That's it. I have it. I must? No, I'm right. _

Sanderson smiled, too blinding and pure for the 141 captain and lieutenant. A smile like that won't last long here. Simon knows John will fight to see it stays as long as possible. Simon will only work to make sure Sanderson isn't pulled down too far after the smile falls.

"I got it!" The kid excitedly yelled. "You want me to rush you. You haven't moved a single step- or stood back up even though I was defenseless. So there's a lesson…Teach me that it's sometimes better to let the enemy come to you instead of rushing ahead? Especially if they out rank you in battle prowess."

Simon had stayed in his battle-ready stance until the kid started talking about lessons. He planted one fist on his hip. "Correct. But not all of it."

"What? Really?" Sanderson sighed in dejected defeat that didn't last long at all. "Can I ask for the full lesson or gotta guess again?"

Simon gestured with his hand at his side towards the captain. "Him. This whole ring is you're battleground. I've taught you that before. Remember last week during infiltration training? You need to remember that a situation is dynamic- subject to change- and that every change can be used against you or for you. You did good in getting me out of the dip at the start. That gave you a higher ground, a better reach, even if by half an inch. But you still failed to see you're other options."

Realization dawned in molten brown eyes. Sanderson literally hoped once in his excitement on the springy ring on his way to where John was leaning against the ring-bands from the outside. The kid had so much damn energy. Simon won't ever understand where it's all stored. An endearing enough quality, he sometimes finds himself wanting Sanderson to keep that energy up. It manages to invigorate the men during training, but something that good won't stay in a place like this doing a job like they do. Just like the smiles. A whisper of a thought brushed his mind:  _ keep it there.  _ It was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Why you didn't say something!" Sanderson accused John, grabbing the ring ropes and shaking them in a fit.

John smirked, saying, "I tried. Five times, actually. Gave ye lil' hints. Yah never really caught onto 'em."

"Really, MacTavish? I knew you'd side with the new kid." Simon shook his head, amused at John's interventions  _ again.  _ John was always out to trip him these days.

"Ye needa damn handicap when ye go against tah team, Ghost. How many times do I 'ave tah tell ye that. It's teh least I could do to save our poor Sarg some bruises."

"Oh my god, that's kinda embarrassing," Sanderson groans loudly. The kid collects himself well enough to get back on topic. "So, what? I tag out?" 

Simon arched an eyebrow. That was in line with John's normal game plans. A little too innocent. Too predictable. He decided to show Sanderson how real life worked. "Nah. Like this. MacTavish, I have a stack of hundreds with your name on it if you help me with a pest problem. Half up front."

John tilted his head from side to side then shrugged. "Deal."

Sanderson yelped as John reached forward and grabbed his shirt front. In a swift movement, John managed to throw Sanderson to the ring's floor by swiping the kid's feet out from under him and hop over the top ring lines effortlessly. John had aimed to land feet first onto the kid, but Sanderson rolled away. Ghost felt calm and amused as he and John proceeded to pummel Sanderson back down to the ring mat for a solid workout that would've put a dedicated hunting hound to shame. By the time Sanderson gave up everyone was breathing hard. On the floor, Sanderson is sweating and wheezing from being winded three seconds ago. Simon was standing akimbo and stretching his back.

"Mates, I needa shower. I'd ruin teh sheets if I skipped tahnight," John breathily chuckled and shook out his limbs. A loud  _ pop  _ from stretching elbows knelled in the eased silence. John chuckled again at a private joke Simon couldn't identify. The captain swung an arm in a half aborted measure and kicked off towards the exit, beckoning, "Come on, it's almost one an' we need tah get up in 'bout five hours."

Simon's first reaction was to refuse. The words for them to go ahead was seized by the clinging fabric from the soaked mask pulling at the edges of his jaw. Rolling his shoulders, he found his back cooling with the same gripping feeling of wet cloth. The rest of him was only slightly heated in a healthy flush. Without even adding the petal's insistent pushing from the two or so hours spent with John's calming presence, the muscles in his back have grown abnormally sore. He had accidentally locked his muscles the more John's figure moved out of his line of sight. A Greeine mistake he's made in the past with John. It'll doubtlessly happen again in the future.

He almost wished for a warm shower. Almost. There was no point in wishing or complaining about it. He has learned to keep his hopes down for wanting something like that. Simon's eyes lazily trail from John to the room at large. Well, he's learned to keep his hopes down about a lot of things, not just wanting a warm shower every now and then. Nodding to show his acceptance, he agreed, "I'm ready for the knacker's yard."

John shot him an amused smile, not bothering to comment. A push of petunias against bruised ribs was expected when the smile switched to  Sanderson. The kid stood on shaky legs and brown eyes sought flat icy-blues out with a questioning tilt of the head. Simon didn't know what the other was trying to subtly convey. Sanderson looked away. For a few heartbeats, Simon was sure Sanderson was going to panic from the way the kid's whole body twitched. But that look wasn't of panic; it was of an active mind with a forming plan.

When the kid had gathered himself enough to look back, Simon was looking at a whole new person he had never seen before. An imposter in place of the sergeant he had thought to never hem and haw in tenacity. The person who should have been Sanderson was someone ready to give in.

What was Sanderson playing at?

"Is it okay if I join you two?"

On guard of the unknown motive behind the complacent set of the person's shoulders, Simon almost missed the question. He had to mentally rewind what he had heard. 

Simon scoffed. He didn't hold it back- couldn't really. It was instinctive at such a stupid question and the realization he had unintenitally labeled Sanderson as a threat. The rapid succession of confusion to relief to realization left only an irate disbelief in their wake. All his focus had been on an ally, looking for a danger he shouldn't have associated with such a person.

The showers were communal with only two stalls at the end that had half-rotten wooden panels from what might be centuries ago for all that Simon cared. Anyone tagged for the TF 141, and those random commanders and captain who didn't need a tag or stayed on base, had access to their showers and lockers. At any time during the day and well into the night at least one person was there. Why the fuck was Sanderson asking him?

Simon went to say something- he hadn't really thought of what he was going to say; he just needed to  _ say  _ something scalding to expel the irritation and anger- when he caught John's warning glare. It read:  _ think before you speak _ ,  _ so help me Riley.  _ Simon just about scoffed as well at John for threatening him as if he was a child. John's face turned to stone. The captain was to the surface, pushing his friend back. Looks like John had caught Simon's annoyance at being called out.

The petals choked him with their nicotine-like drug for daring to start a fight with their owner. The urge to cough and beat his chest surged up. Backpedaling the knee-jerk reaction to defend himself in the hopes of fighting off the incoming coughing fit, Simon gave his surroundings a check with critical eyes that didn't see anything. He was too focused inside to make sense of the gym. Emotions calming, he was able to understand that John knew what Sanderson was going on about. The man must think it's important to go as far as to stop him from biting his own foot.

Sanderson had not missed their heated exchange, either.

_ Properly slapped and put on a stool in front of the class,  _ Simon bitterly thought as he took a mental step back to tackle the situation from a different angle.

Sanderson had asked for a reason. Simon doesn't know that reason. Doesn't even care about it. He just wants to get clean and out of this stupid balaclava and into a bed. So instead of chewing the kid's head off for acting like that, Simon turns towards the doors and calls out, "Yeah, kid. We wouldn't make you wait till tomorrow unless you would've really fucked up during training." When no one followed, he reiterated, "Let's go. We haven't got all night."

Simon yanked off the balaclava just as John appears next to him with a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing in what Simon thinks is supposed to be assurance. Simon rolled his eyes and pointedly ignored the hand. Just on the other side of the captain, rounded, brown eyes were zipping back and forth in their sockets. They snapped up to lock eyes with his when Sanderson noticed Simon was looking at him.

The realization that Sanderson has  _ never  _ seen his face shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. Simon shrugged the uneasy feeling away. He informed, "Look kid, you've never seen my face, na? Big deal. I do go without the mask. Just haven't been lately. It's not a secret. Isn't worth your worry or whatever the bloody hell that was back there."

Sanderson was serious again, but that same careful look didn't go away. Simon likened it to trying to gauge or calm a frightened animal. Simon chose not to think about it any further. He would just get annoyed again or angry at being treated like something soft. Sanderson's voice cut off the mental flinch the idea of him being  _ soft  _ had brought about.

"Yes, sir. Understood. I figured you would've wanted the chance to choose when or if I did see your face. I hadn't known...the topic was not- ah- forbidden. Or that you would be okay with it. Sorry if I offended you."

Simon scoffed again but a part of him that he didn't have to deal with often outside of John was warming up to Sanderson. Without meaning to, a tiny bit of appreciation leaked on the edges of icy-blue eyes to soften their edges a degree. Just enough for John and Sanderson to read them clearly. Simon faced forward to ignore the way Sanderson's face lit up and John's laugh lines deepened into something sweet.

Simon really wanted to just say fuck this emotional bullshit and go to sleep. It drained him to the point of wanting to forgo his ritual of showering after workouts.

The taste of sweet tobacco in his throat and the press of petals was a nice enough deterrent from bailing on his two teammates now. Nothing at all to do with the warmth in his chest. Simon wonders briefly if he should call Farris- his latest therapist who had done wonders in helping him understand himself- and tell the man he is lying to himself again. The thought was shot down faster than he could finish it. It wouldn't do to get his  _ military issued  _ therapist involved with the growth. Farris would only push him to get it removed or tell the owner of the growth. Simon won't have that.

The captain and sergeant spoke about defending against several opponents as they walked, undressed in the locker room, and filed into the showers. Simon mostly ignored the conversation and the company, choosing to let John teach the kid a thing or two; John was a good teacher when he wasn't focused on several people at once. Simon was also starting to feel heavy and hollow inside all in one. The emotional bullshit of a couple of minutes ago coupled with the panic attack and the days workload brought his social meter down to nonexistent. 

The water was turned on absently with a flick of the wrist and Simon prepared to get iced as the water almost sluggishly fell from the shower heads. The pressure was poor for this time of night. Unusual as it was always jets firing at any time. Simon wondered if it was from the cold weather outside or the water pump was turned down for nighttime use by the administrators wanting to conserve the wells. Mindlessly reaching out to touch the water, he was jolted out of lazy indifference by the warmth that coated his hand. Simon's other hand shot out to cup the water. Icy eyes opened in shock at the feeling of warm water biting at his hands. It burned, scalded his hands, flushed the pale skin a bright red instantly that felt so  _ good. _

Not bothering to suppress a laugh of pure  _ joy  _ at having the chance for a warm shower, Simon stepped into the spray and tilted his head back so the water would hit his face directly. An assault of shivers and goosebumps ran down his back and arms, over his chest, and made him run rough hands over his person to quell them. The heat of it was wonderful. It melted oils, dirt, and stress right off.

" _ Ooh bloody hell, that feels good,"  _ Simon groaned as his muscles relaxed into the stinging heat.

John's own appreciative groan was soon expressed somewhere behind him. Simon smiled at the thought of his captain being happy. The press of petals against bruised ribs was, yet again, nothing compared to John. Simon will have to see about getting rid of them before the mission in the coming week.

"Imma have tah thank that S.A.S. operative for fixin' it," John called out over the sound of the water.

Simon asked, "When did they fix it? Had to have been today. It wasn't warm yesterday."

"I asked last week. Figured it would have taken longer or not at all. Guess not."

From there John falls off into talking about battle tactics with Sanderson. They were comparing S.A.S. and the Task Force 141 common styles and how they differed. Simon was included, but he didn't care to join in again. Simon set about massaging his arms and legs while the hot water lasted. He won't let this go to waste. He's lathering soap clockwise into his calf when their conversation changed.

"So, the flowers. They look the same. What type is it?" John casually asked.

A wild and irrational thought leaps to the forefront of his mind:  _ He knows.  _ Simon's shoulders bunch then loosen as the sheer impossibility of that thought rises. Icy eyes harden as they scan the tiled flooring and it hits him a second later that John wasn't talking to him. The relief is not easy to hold back. John will never know. It must be something else. Sanderson, probably. So, not his problem. Simon is done, but he finds his hands move on their own to lather soap and reapply to areas already cleaned.

There is a long pause where only the sounds of water falling, people cleaning themselves, and the rush of the water in the pipes filled the room. As if brought out from a long tunnel, Sanderson's subdued voice drifts through the noise, "They are carnations. It's my flower."

"Mhmm, it's a nice flower," John humms. "Don't know anythin' about it, but looks nice. The linework is awesome. You'll have to tell me your artist so I can look em up. Might learn somethin' from em, eh? But- how do you know it? I tried to find mine, yah know. Website said there's no way to."

"Well, there is the one. Someone has to get your flower and you find out. That's how I did."

"Huh…" the quiet takes over for a minute. Simon is running low on places to rewash. He glared at his hands that smooth over a firm chest for a third time. This is stupid. He is being childish, invasive, and it was none of his business. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't want to know why the kid had his own flower tattooed on his skin.

"I wish I knew mine," John says with a yawn. "Would help with spottin' that perfect one, yah know?"

_ Ha, fucking, ha, John. Yeah right. What's perfect about some fucked up war vertern?  _ Simon thought to himself.

Sanderson chuckled softly, almost too low to hear over the spray of water, "Yeah. It does help others find you. Mine was more...my sister had it. She was worried about me when we were little and she grew it. She told me so we were able to catch it before she got hurt. Wasn't a big deal. Haven't had anyone with it since. Hope no one does, anyway. They're...well the growths just hurt people."

Simon read something else in the kid's tone. Sanderson was thinking about something. Simon wasn't good at reading between the lines, but he knew an uncomfortable topic when he stumbled upon one. Sanderson was either hiding something from them or didn't want others asking about his past. It wasn't Simon's place to say or do anything about it. He didn't think there was anything he could do. Sanderson was either going to talk about his problems or bottle them up.

_ And then freak out and have a panic attack in the middle of a hallway again. _

Simon turned the water off, frowning. He should say something. Sanderson had been completely out of it during the panic attack. If that happened during a mission, they would all pay the price for him not bringing the problem out into the open. But it wasn't his right to delve into someone else's problems, their past. He doesn't want others in his so he has no right to demand it of others. Turning around to find the sergeant is turned away from him into the stream of water, Simon got his first look at Sanderson's flower.

It was splayed between and somewhat on the edges of prominent shoulder blades. Three scrunched flowers bloomed in white, pink, and a light red. Their stalks ended in an intersection in the middle of his back. A thick yellow ribbon wrapped around the stems three times and fluttered off to either side. In elegant black writing along each wrap of the ribbon a name was almost impossible to read in the distance between them. The only thing Simon could make out was that it wasn't Sanderson's name. Someone with an S for their first name, O for the second, and S for the last. Simon watched the flowers bunch as Sanderson rinsed his hair. The meaning of the tattoo was plain to see even for someone like Simon. It was scarred, intimate. He felt ill looking at it.

Simon grabbed his soaps and bottles off the railing and left the showers without saying anything. There is nothing to say. This SOS person was dead now. There is no mistaking that kind of tattoo or gesture towards another human. Getting a tattoo, having the name, not wanting to mention it- Sanderson had lost loved ones, too.

Simon did not feel worthy to know of Sanderson's own honored graves and he didn't think Sanderson was worthy of knowing his own dead family. One day, they could sit and talk if it ever becomes a problem on the field. His therapist had taught him to speak it out to help with the overwhelming emotions; that doesn't mean he does it with anyone outside of the shrink's office. Until then Simon will leave Sanderson alone in his grief and mourning or whatever problems the kid has with his past.

Simon dressed in his spare workout clothes from the locker and grabbed his dirtied clothing under one arm. He left the locker room and headed to his dorm room. After brushing his teeth in the nearby communal restroom, shedding his clothing down to his boxers in his rooms, and trying to warm up again under thin covers, his mind starts to think more of Sanderson than he is happy about.

In his mind, Simon watched the kid move about the ring, trying to stick all the pieces in their rightful spot. The kid had been careful. It was so unlike what Simon normally expected from the other. What had that been? Why was Sanderson so...docile.

Whatever this was…was it even a thing? Was he overthinking it? John wouldn't bite his head off for nothing. His captain understood motives and emotions more than he does. Simon trusts his captain in that area; trusts John MacTavish in just about every area, really. John wanted him to think, so he will fucking think. Even if it's pointless, takes way too long, and ends up being a simple problem with a simple answer that any decent human being would get.

Simon sighed loudly into the cold air of his dorm room. He reached over to the end table and turned the lamp on by pulling its metal chain. Soft yellow light perfect for reading at night radiates outwards, not even filling the whole room with its gentle glow. Simon sat looking at the ceiling as his mind worked over the problem.

Sanderson had asked  _ him- _ not the captain.

The voice of his therapist- who was too smart for his own good- offered a bit of advice:  _ Start there, Mr. Riley. Ask yourself why. Why did this happen to you? What was your first thought? _

_ Why ask me?  _ Simon wondered.

That man's voice came back:  _ And your thoughts? _

Sanderson followed the chain of command like every operative. The kid should have asked John. He didn't.

_ Why? _

The kid didn't seem to hate Simon. If anything, Sanderson was always looking up to him and asking if a task was done okay or for pointers. Simon can safely and with good evidence say Sanderson is the perfect subordinate with the way he looks out for others and solves trivial problems that Simon would have had to solve in the past. The little complaints and issues that he had been tasked with was now falling on the new sergeant. The team didn't interact with him as much as they had. That was fine with Simon. More than fine. It left him to do what he needed to do without having to stop every other couple of hours because someone misplaced a tool or some other obscure object Simon would have to write up a report for a replacement.

_ That's it. _

Sanderson chose to ask him because it deals with them as a unit. MacTavish is not included in their unit because it didn't have to go that high in command. Not any other reason.

Simon can practically see that lard-bucket of a therapist hiding a twist of lips behind a hand that smoothed out a perfect goatee at actually getting somewhere with him. While Simon had loathed having to go to those shrinks, he had begrudgingly accepted this last man as the one who could get him back in action. Farris was annoying as all hell but had somehow known how Simon's mind worked. They had been able to communicate. Simon had not felt caged or as if being picked apart for science. The lessons Farris taught him have clung worse than the coated stockinette of an S.T. grenade.

Farris' calm and collected voice remarked,  _ Good, Mr. Riley. We have accomplished one goal. Let's move to the next and see if you can reason it out. Ask yourself what. What caused this change? What was your first thought? _

_ What had Sanderson asked of me? _

To be allowed to shower with him. No, to be allowed to shower at the same time. 

_ You have the why and the what. Ask yourself where. Where did you notice the changes? What was your first thought?  _ Farris was as nosy as always. Simon didn't mind the intruding memories of the old shrink. They were solving the problem. 

_ Where did Sanderson ask of me? _

The showers. The only thing Simon could think of from that answer was the nakedness of showering in a communal area. It must've been personal. Did Sanderson think he hadn't seen other guys bodies before? Was the kid shy or something? Did he feel scared of...Simon's gaze wandered to the balaclava sitting on the end table. Icy-blue eyes slowly widened a fraction.

That's right. His answer. Asking him- showering together- bare of all shields- face to face.

Earlier had been the first time Sanderson saw his face. The act was nothing important. Every man before Sanderson had saw him without the balaclava. He went most off-duty days without it. The fact that he never strayed from his rooms, the mess, or the bathrooms was not relevant. Because of the petunia growth, the black mask had been a permanent fixture for months to keep the tiny stray petals from escaping while his guard was down. The mask was only there to stop John from seeing or suspecting a growth was spawning in his lungs. Everyone has grown used to it. They expect him to wear it now. John had been worried when the mask started to stay on more than what it had, but Simon had been able to lie about wanting to get use to the heat of it. He doesn't believe John still accepts that answer.

But Sanderson had asked him if it was okay to see his face. That same warm feeling from when Sanderson had apologized spread over his chest. The kid had thought about his wants and had chosen to ask him instead of just ignoring it. That damn fool was way too innocent for their job. Simon smiled softly at the image of the kid's goofy face brightening any room it was in. Simon now understood the appreciation he had felt towards the Sergeant and the thoughtfulness Sanderson had given him.

The kid was too innocent. Simon is getting tired of thinking that. The more he thinks it the more he wants to make Sanderson stay on base for every mission.

He flipped the comforter off him and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Simon's hand reached for and clenched in the black fabric. Scarred hands turned it over and right-side out to see the white printed skull. The act of letting Sanderson see him hasn't changed anything between them. It didn't mean anything to Simon. He liked that Sanderson had asked first, but it didn't matter in the end. They will continue to work well together on the field and avoid each other off the field.

Sanderson must think the mask is more than what it is. Does his own consciousness still accept the reason the balaclava stays on for the growth only and not for another reason altogether? Can he even admit something like that to himself? 

At that thought, Simon wonders if it is indeed a symbol of something. He had chosen it because of Roba's influence on his past and his little brother's childish scare tactics. The Day of the Dead skull danced in his dreams to the point he would wake up in cold sweats and a growl just to get Roba's laugh out of his head. It was fitting to use a balaclava with a skull when taking that into account and the moniker of "Ghost" he had taken for himself. Does it have an extra meaning, though? Simon isn't sure anymore.

Simon doesn't fall asleep that night. The dead dance, emotions war with each other, and the mind turns over and over. 0500 creeps up on him just as he is able to lay back down.

Another sleepless, exhausting day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: self-depreciating thoughts, non-explicit shower scene that is in no way romantic or whatever (only listing in case someone doesn't like that??)
> 
> Thank-you for reading. I'm glad that you have made it this far. That means I must be doing something correct, right? Please comment and kudos if you liked it. Feel free to ask me anything about the story or if something wasn't clear. I am always trying to improve my writing style. You can find my on tumblr under the name 3sleepycats. 
> 
> -with love to the readers and see you next week  
DN


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